


Drumbeat Echoes

by khh1961



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Related, Canonical Character Death, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:48:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khh1961/pseuds/khh1961
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last night at the barricade.. fears to face, truths to tell before the whole thing goes to hell...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drumbeat Echoes

**Drumbeat Echoes**

Rain beat down on the roof the Café Musain that night as the boys huddled together, safe for now behind their barricade, waiting for dawn and almost certainly for death to find them. It was a cold, black rain that mirrored the mood inside the café. They shared some wine, talked softly amongst themselves. Enjolras, their leader, tried to buoy their spirits, told them to keep the faith, that they weren’t alone in their fight but even he had begun to lose hope. He sat apart from the others, brooding silently, hoping they wouldn’t see. To them he was ‘Apollo’ after all, the man of marble, cold steel in his blue eyes, angry fire in his veins. He had led them all to this place, to this day, and they had followed him willingly, even gladly. He knew in all likelihood none of them would be alive to greet the dawn and the enormity of that knowledge was almost more than even a marble god could shoulder.

They had thwarted one attack earlier in the evening when the National Guard had marshaled their forces just the other side of the barricade. The artillery sergeant had called out in the darkness “Who’s there?” When Enjolras answered “French Revolution!” the troops replied with a hail of musket fire. Then when the soldiers tried to advance on the barricade Marius, one of Enjolras’ best friends, had grabbed a powder keg and a lit torch, faced them down and threatened to blow the whole barricade. The guard withdrew to a safe distance but everyone knew that would only be temporary. A few of the boys sustained minor injuries from the musket fire but Eponine, a beautiful dark haired young girl from a street family of thieves and cons, had been mortally wounded. She had grabbed the barrel end of one of the muskets and was shot at point blank range. She died a few minutes later in Marius’ arms. Now her body lay inside the café, covered with a blanket, the first of them to fall. Everyone knew for certain she wouldn’t be the last.

Fearing their situation may be hopeless, Enjolras had earlier insisted that women and fathers of young children leave the barricade and retreat to safety; several had. Now all that remained were the young men, students mostly, who had met at this very café for months, planning and preparing for this day. They were the foot soldiers, the believers in the new dawn that Enjolras had spoken about so often, so passionately. Besides Marius, there was Combeferre, Joly, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bahorel and Feuilly. There was also a young boy of 10 or 11, Gavroche, a street urchin who had attached himself to the group, but especially to Courfeyrac. He was wise beyond his years and braver than many grown men. He would cheer the boys up by singing, getting them all to join in. They all loved him but none more Courfeyrac who was probably the closest thing to a father the boy had ever known.

And there was Grantaire, mostly known by his nicknames ‘R’ or ‘Taire. He was not one of them, not a foot soldier, not a believer in their cause. He was a drunkard, a devout skeptic and a fool whose antics provided the only comic relief in this dark course of plotting revolution. He took nothing seriously except drinking, a pastime at which he was most expert. From his table in the corner of the back room, ‘Taire heckled, baited, mocked and annoyed this group of wide eyed young idealists but still they had come to accept his presence among them and to treat him as a friend.

That is, all except for Enjolras whom it seemed Grantaire took a particular delight in vexing. Enjolras was not a man of great patience nor inclined to lightheartedness or levity. He resented Grantaire’s constant presence, his behavior, his attitudes and, in point of fact, most everything about him. But for the sake of his followers who all seemed to tolerate this good for nothing fool, Enjolras did his best to ignore the dark haired cynic, giving him the least regard he could muster.

Enjolras could not understand then why ‘Taire was here with them, especially now, in the face of such long odds. He could have stayed away altogether, curled up in some hole, content with his bottle. Knowing what was likely to come, he could have left the barricade earlier with the women and fathers. But he hadn’t. In fact, Grantaire had jumped into help restrain the spy Javert when his true identity had been revealed by Gavroche. Javert had broken free and punched Enjolras squarely in the jaw before he was finally subdued by the boys. This act of violence toward Enjolras had provoked such a murderous rage in Grantaire that the boys practically had to subdue him too to keep him from beating the police inspector to a bloody pulp. Why would he help then, wondered Enjolras? Why would he choose to stay? Enjolras feared there may not be enough time left -for any of them- to learn the answers.

Grantaire sat with the others, clutching his bottle and taking long, deep pulls of the amber liquid every so often. He knew they were all likely facing death and he knew he lacked the intestinal fortitude to face it sober. The boys around him were the closest thing to family he had and he couldn’t bear the idea of them all dying and leaving him alone in the world once again. So here he would remain, facing whatever fate had in store for all of them.

And he was there for Enjolras too, maybe even mostly for Enjolras, though he kept that secret to himself. There was something about the blonde, blue eyed leader, something about his inner fire, his moral courage that struck a deep chord in Grantaire, moved him in a way he’d never been moved by another living soul. Just to be in his presence gave Grantaire a sense of warmth and peace. Just to stand in Apollo’s light gave him a sense of strength and courage, something he had never found in any bottle. But even more than that, there was love. Grantaire had grown to idolize this angry, passionate young man, to see him almost as if he were a divine or celestial being. The longing deep in Grantaire’s soul just to be near Enjolras had grown so strong that now, here he sat, almost certainly facing death, just to be in the presence of his Apollo for a while longer, come what may.

This feeling of love was one that perplexed Grantaire greatly. It was an anomaly to him and he could not understand it. He could not figure out how to define or describe it, or even if he should try. It made him uncomfortable, put him off-center, so he tried valiantly to drink it away only to find that that experiment failed miserably. He tried working it out through his art, sketching the handsome young revolutionary when he was sure no one was watching. The man was a living sculpture, thought Grantaire, and no amount of painting or sketching him seemed to do him proper justice. His was an elusive beauty, one that Grantaire basked in happily even if he could never seem to capture it on canvas.

Outwardly he treated his feelings for Enjolras much the same way young boys in adolescence do. He heckled, annoyed, teased and was generally quite obnoxious toward Enjolras, especially if there was an audience around and almost always when he was emboldened by alcohol.

Tonight, this night, was different though, he knew, and no amount of alcohol could assuage the fear running rampant through Grantaire’s heart and mind. He struggled to his feet, wavered unsteadily for a moment, then moved toward the place where Enjolras sat brooding and alone. He did not ask for permission, rather just slumped down quietly beside the somber faced leader in the fiery red waistcoat.

 “This is not the time or place for drunkenness, ‘R’. Many good young men will likely die here before this night ends” Enjolras whispered in a low and dangerous voice. “Why are you here anyway? This is not your cause, not your fight. You care for nothing save for yourself and your drink. You are good for nothing. You believe in nothing.”

Grantaire remained quiet until Enjolras had finished his hushed yet brutal rant at the drunkard beside him. Then he met Enjolras’ steady gaze, green eyes locked on blue, placed a hand gently on his shoulder and replied simply “You are wrong Enjolras. I believe in you. And when the time comes, you will see.”

With that, he got up and staggered back to sit with the boys again, watching, waiting. The cold black rain fell on the roof of the café all night like a drum beat, echoing the beating of each anxious heart huddled there below, till at last the dawn broke and the drum fell silent.


End file.
